Of Love and Loss, by Evan Jameson
by The Frog
Summary: A companion piece to Scars of War, this is Evan Jameson's first novel as discussed in Scars of War. Names have been changed. To completely understand the premise, read Scars of War first, though it is not necessary. R for action, violence, foul languag


A/N: This is Evan Jameson's first book, detailing the happenings of the war from his own, warped, perspective. If you need help for any reason figuring out who's who, e-mail me and I'll send you a character list with all of the translated names. I don't think it's too difficult! Enjoy! By the way, I unintentionally (well, maybe a little intentionally) followed in Angua's footsteps and slipped in a Lord of the Rings reference. It was alluded to in both the movie and book, and so fair game for anybody. I may keep this up, I may not. We'll see.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I am just using.variations.of JK's characters for my own amusement and that of others.  
  
"I wrote down everything I could remember from the war, from our school days, from stories that other people had told me, everywhere. "I think I started to go crazy at that point and began to imagine them as if they hadn't happened to me, but to someone else in a completely different situation. I think that I wanted to believe that it was my imagination, not something that actually happened. Anyway, that's where my first novel came from. I'll never know exactly why, I sent it to a publisher and they loved it. After a while, I quit the janitor job and wrote full time, publishing under the name Evan Jameson." ~Harry, Scars of War  
  
"Now that I think about it, all of his books closely paralleled things that happened in the war, but embellished, with little twists to make them sound like Muggle spy missions." ~Hermione, Scars of War  
  
Of Love and Loss By Evan Jameson  
  
Chapter I: Doran's Passing  
  
A tiny figure lay in wait on that hillside, underneath a copse of trees. Nobody saw him. Nobody would. He was a friend of the earth and of the shadows, a partner to the wind. Light feared to tread here. The ground in the clearing ahead was scorched and stained a stale, dark brown; the trees and the stone cried out silently, echoing the torture of hundreds of innocents. This was an evil place.  
  
Across the gulley, pinpricks of light leapt forth and, dancing, wound their way down, down into that foul area. Oliver's eyes narrowed. They were coming. They would bring him, and they would die for taking him. It was simple.  
  
The pinpricks of light grew larger, closer. Torches, mused Oliver. How very medieval. There were ten, maybe fifteen of them. The light disappeared as the torches rounded a bend, and then reappeared again suddenly close at hand. As the torch-bearers entered the clearing, the fire itself seemed to sputter and shrink back in fear as if it, too, could sense the evil. In the dim light, Oliver could perceive only formless shapes moving about, though from experience he knew that the figures lighting the way were men, hooded and cloaked in black. Messengers. He felt his jaw clench at the mere thought of the word.  
  
In the center of the ring, one of the Messengers had thrown a body, beaten and broken. Its leg stuck out at an odd angle; its face was a collage of bruises and swelling, its black hair matted with blood. While it was overall a caricature of its former self, there was no mistaking the identity. "Doran." The strangled cry escaped from Oliver's throat before he could quell it. No, Doran. No, you can't be dead. Please get up. Please.  
  
His plea was answered as one of the hooded figures drawled, "Get him up. I shall not be the one to deal with him when the master takes care of him." A hunched, sniveling figure hurried into the ring and issued a shuffling kick to the body's stomach. It groaned and rolled over. The drawling figure moved to stand over Doran and snapped "Get up. You will show proper respect when the master arrives. I would do exactly as he said if you wish for a painless death."  
  
Doran groaned again and gasped, and with what seemed a tremendous amount of effort spat in the direction of the figure. The snarling form shifted angrily and kicked him sharply in the back, causing him to roll onto his stomach once more. "You will pay for that," it spat. "Maybe as a reward for your capture I'll be given your remains. I'd just love to see your precious godson's reaction when he happens upon your entrails dangling from his window. A charming morning view, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
Oliver growled softly and clutched his sword hilt. Not yet. Do not kill him yet. The Messengers suddenly stiffened and fell silent. Soon, he too became aware of a soft whumping noise overhead, though barely had he heard it before he saw it. The master was come.  
  
The helicopter landed just outside the circle; it was black as night and deathly silent. To some it would seem to appear from nowhere. A Night Hawk. Perfectly quiet, and terrifyingly fast, the Night Hawk was one of the most technologically advanced choppers in the world. Once fired, the missiles never missed; once an enemy was sighted, he never escaped. There were no more than ten in existence; all were supposedly accounted for by the British government.  
  
A flash of scarlet and emerald glimmered in the torchlight. Oliver heard the swish of a cloak and the crunch of heavy boots on the clearing floor as an imperiously large figure entered the ring. Its face, deeply hooded, seemed always just out of light's reach. Oliver's stomach turned. Orlov Demt. Here was the man who tortured for fun. Here was the man responsible for the death of thousands and the imprisonment of his godfather. Here was the man who killed his parents.  
  
Oliver shivered as a wave of nausea swept through him, and he pulled his coat tighter. The coat had been his father's before he was murdered. It was a deep silver-grey, the complement of every color, the hue of the shadows. It blended perfectly with the night in all its shades and star-lit glimmers. While it didn't enable him to disappear, it allowed him to avoid being seen if he wished. And he did wish. He knew that he couldn't move yet. To do so was suicide, and he needed to keep himself alive if he wanted to rescue Doran.  
  
Demt was clad in a deep red cloak, made even brighter in contrast with the black of his followers. A green snake wrapped itself from hem to hip. With the flicker of the torches and the movement of the breeze, the serpent seemed to come alive, writhing and hissing in the night.  
  
The Messengers bowed deferentially to their master, momentarily forgetting their prisoner. Demt swept past his followers with barely a glance at them, halting at the head of the still prone and gasping Doran. Wordlessly, Demt reached into the darkness of his cloak. The great sword whispered like silk and twinkled in the torchlight as he drew it from the scabbard. He hefted it in his hand carelessly and gave the sparkling blade an appreciative faceless stare from the depths of his hood. In one fluid motion, the flat of the blade suddenly rested beneath the prisoner's chin, lifting the bruised and bleeding concoction from the ground.  
  
"How nice of you to join us," Demt spoke in a high, menacing voice that made Oliver's skin crawl. "The festivities are just beginning, though I do believe you are the main attraction. I'm so dreadfully sorry. We do seem to be out of cotton candy at the moment. Please, take this with our deepest apologies." The scarlet hood nodded towards a tall, black clad figure who stepped immediately into the ring. With a short, reverent bow, it held out a tiny object that glittered silver in the torchlight. Oliver could not see it, but had a good idea of what it was.  
  
"This," mused Demt, holding the silver tube between thumb and forefinger for all to see, "is the world's most powerful truth serum. Created by myself, of course, and brewed by our faithful Dr. Cole here, whose ability rivals my own, a dose of this size will keep a man truthful for the rest of his life. If it doesn't kill him, that is. Pity you will not live long enough to discover any other.side effects."  
  
Oliver watched on in horror as the scarlet figure raised Doran's head to an unnatural angle with the tip of the sword and poured the tube's contents down his godfather's throat. If he went now, he might make it.Cole's tonic might buy him time.they might be too preoccupied.  
  
"If you move, you will die," a gruff voice whispered in his ear and suddenly he felt his wrists clasped tightly behind him. "Down on your knees, boy, and do as I say. Turn and I will kill you. Yell and I will kill you. Signal for help and I will kill you. Got it?" Oliver nodded. "Good. Move again and I will kill you."  
  
Thoughts screamed through Oliver's head. How had this man found him? How could he possibly have missed a figure leaving the ring? Especially after Demt's arrival?.Demt's arrival!.The chopper pilot! Dammit, dammit, dammit! He looked desperately into the clearing, at poor Doran lying helpless. How could he have jeopardized them both like this?  
  
"Now," the man whispered, "do exactly as I say. If you do, you and your friend may yet live out the night. Do not, and I myself will kill you both. Got it?"  
  
Oliver knew better than to move.  
  
"Good. Now. Continue watching. A man will soon be killed. Do not get distracted. Once this happens there will be a small amount of confusion. Use that, and run as quietly as possible to the tree to your right, the one sticking out into the clearing. Stay tight until you see me signal. I will flash my light once. Move in then, and have no mercy. I'll be waiting in the Hawk. I will let you go now, but remember this: if you hurt me, you will only be hurting yourself and someone you love. So just watch that dagger by your ankle."  
  
Dumbfounded, Oliver felt himself released from the iron grip. When he turned, no one was there. His confusion was overridden, however, as Demt began to speak again inside the clearing. "That should be sufficient time for the poison to work." He bent down closer to Doran's face, lifting the sword tip higher than ever. Oliver only hoped it was a product of his frightened, angry imagination when he heard a painful popping coming from Doran. "How do you feel, Mr. Underwood?"  
  
Groggily, obviously drugged, Doran replied with a slurred "I.*cough* I feel.that.I feel that all of you.each.and every.one.can go.to Hell."  
  
Demt nodded sagely. "I see. And I don't suppose you'd care to tell us how to get into the school?"  
  
"I'll. . . tell you."  
  
"Really? I'm very pleased to hear it. Pray, do tell."  
  
"What. . . what you have to do. . . "  
  
"Please, enlighten us."  
  
"Go. . ."  
  
"Yes?'  
  
"Go. . . fuck yourselves. All.all of you. That's how you get in."  
  
"I see. I see it perfectly now. How incredibly childish. How incredibly stupid. Yes, well, it is all made clear." Demt nodded again to his right, and this time, the cloaked figure beside Dr. Cole moved. He grabbed the doctor so swiftly Oliver almost didn't see it. To his unending horror, before he could even think to react, there was a flash of a knife blade and Dr. Cole was on the ground. His head bent back at an unnatural angle and blood spilled forth to join that which already stained the ground. He never screamed as his throat was slit. A wave of bile rose up in Oliver's throat. Cole had been his teacher. He was a trusted spy in the Network.he was.dead.  
  
Suddenly Oliver's brain clicked off and training and instincts took over. He must run. The Messengers were shaken. They hadn't seen this coming.but the pilot had. No, he couldn't think of that now. He must get to the tree. One last look at the twisted form of his former teacher and then he ran, ran like he never had before without making a sound.  
  
Safe. For now.  
  
The tree he was now behind was twisted with age and decay. It was burdened with the sight of so many deaths, so much destruction and horror, for it was set farthest into the clearing. It remembered, for many hundreds of years, the rise and fall of dark overlords in that country. All had used this place for their dirty work. There was a hidden malice in this place, wrought for millennia uncounted, that attracted the evil of other men. The tree wept for those who had fallen in the name of all that was good and pure. Oliver could feel it. He could feel many things set in rock and earth.  
  
The murmur among the Messengers died down and Demt swept the tip of the sword from under Doran's chin. Doran's head fell with a painful sounding crack. Demt turned and addressed his minions. "Let Cole's death be a message to any who dare oppose me. I will not tolerate vice among you. Long has he plotted against our noble cause. Long has he worked for that damned Network, posing as a double agent. I shall not be so lenient towards any who follow in Mr. Cole's footsteps. Your deaths will be slow and painful."  
  
He turned back to Doran. "Now, Mr. Underwood. Since that truth serum was obviously. . . inattentively formulated. . . what can we do to make you cooperate?"  
  
"There is nothing," Doran snarled from the ground. Now that his neck no longer strained beneath the sword, he seemed better able to speak. He looked up at Demt with a feral anger in his eyes. "Nothing you can do to me will make me forsake the Network, nor compromise my godson. You will never get Oliver. Not while any of us live."  
  
"Ahh, but you see, we will take care of that. We will take care of all of that. For we have something far more powerful on our side than hope and kindness. We have the gods of old, the power and dark magic of days gone by. Malice and weaponry will always conquer peace and good intentions."  
  
Doran spat at his feet. "Magic does not exist. And so long as there is good in the world, you will never prevail. And your fanciful magic will die with you."  
  
"Really? You don't believe in magic, do you? Well, why don't I demonstrate some? It will be nice to have more believers." The scarlet figure raised his great sword in front of his face and looked thoughtfully at it once more, before speaking nonchalantly.  
  
"Abra Kadabra."  
  
The sword arced once more and with a silver whoosh plunged deep into Doran's back. He arched backwards before falling again with a wrenching cry. Blood spilled everywhere as Oliver watched Demt pull the sword from his godfather's body. Oliver went numb and started to shake. He wasn't aware of anything but the sight before him. He wanted to throw up, to cry out, and in one long second watched all of the short time he had known Doran flash before his eyes.  
  
"Noooooo!" His sword rang as he drew it and ran. Oliver knew nothing but cold fury and the electricity that coursed through his body. Nothing mattered but getting Doran out of there. Doran would live. They would die. They would all die. Surprised, one of the black Messengers turned to greet him as he flew from the cover of the trees. Oliver hewed him down in one stroke without breaking stride. Another robed figure turned to him, scimitar raised. With a strong upward sweep, Oliver disarmed him, taking the figure's hand along with the weapon.  
  
Three more fell before he broke through the ring, to the scarlet figure standing at the ready. Oliver stood in front of the figure unafraid, even though he knew that he was no match for Demt with a sword. Without so much of the formality Demt usually placed on duels, each rushed at the other, weapons at the ready.  
  
Oliver swung his sword overhead with both hands, aiming for a sweeping blow at the head. Demt parried and swept aside his blow, aiming a kick to Oliver's stomach. Oliver leapt aside and swung wildly at Demt's foot while he was unbalanced. The sword caught the tip of Demt's scarlet robe, and in one wrenching pull, the cloak fell, tripping its wearer. The hood fell off, and in the light of the torch for the first time, Oliver could see what was hidden.  
  
Demt's face had been horribly disfigured. It was a terrifying mottle of scarred flesh and stretched skin. The bone structure looked as though it had been broken and reshaped to resemble that of a serpent, flat and angular. Worst of all was his nose. It was completely missing, but for two slits that resembled that of a snake. The cartilage had been removed and the skin had grown over, leaving the nostrils to lie flat. Oliver's stomach heaved again from utter revulsion. He had done this on purpose? Demt grinned up at him from the ground.  
  
"Well done, little Oliver. Well done. Too bad you are too late to save Mr. Underwood here. I'm sure he does not resent your.untimely appearance. Pity you could have done something to save him had you not hidden in the trees like a coward."  
  
Oliver said nothing, but advanced on the prone figure, now wearing nothing more than a black robe beneath his resplendent red robes. He raised his sword for the final blow, the one that would forever rid the world of Demt. The remaining Messengers looked on in horror, seemingly unable to perceive that their master might be beaten. Oliver drove his sword down, aiming for the skull, aiming to cut the famed engineer's most cherished organ from its horrible exterior. Suddenly, however, he was distracted by a strangled noise behind him. Doran. His stroke went wide, striking at his enemy's head and ripping the eye from the socket. Demt cried out in pain and fury. Oliver wanted nothing more than to kill Demt, to finish the job.but if Doran had a chance.as Demt writhed in pain on the ground, Oliver turned to his godfather.  
  
The sight was more horrible than he could have possibly believed. There lay Doran, his only family, beaten to a pulp. Blood pooled everywhere, more blood than was possible for one human. Only then did he remember Cole. Oliver would avenge Cole. He would avenge them all, but Cole was dead. He had to accept it. He was dead. Doran yet lived. He scooped his godfather up, desperately ignoring how fragile he seemed, how broken. "Hang on, Doran," he heard himself say. "Hang on. We'll make it." His voice shuddered, and somehow he didn't believe it himself.  
  
He burst through the ring of Messengers, all standing helplessly, wondering whether they should attend to their master or the man who felled him. The Night Hawk's door was open, and a man, presumably the one who had accosted him, sat in the pilot's seat with the blades running. Without knowing whether this man was truly a friend, he leapt into the chopper with Doran. Both were covered in blood, and slid on the metal floor. The pilot was shouting something at him, but he could not hear. He might be going to his death. The pilot might be a Messenger. But he was his only hope. The Night Hawk rose into the air. The torches became pinpricks once again. And slowly, mile by mile, Doran's life force ebbed away.  
  
A/N: Whew!! Hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter, such questions as: Who was that weirdo in the woods? And, Why, if they have helicopters and such, are they using swords? All very valuable questions indeed. I promise to try and keep up with this fairly regularly. I swear. Please ignore the fact that it's been a year since I've posted anything, and two since I updated Harry's Neighbor. Thank you, by the way, to Alex and everybody else for your encouraging reviews on that story. I have started a new chapter, but it will take a back seat to this story. It's only because of you, however, that I'm considering continuing the story at all! Thanks again, and if you enjoyed it, drop me a review. If you didn't drop me a review. Criticisms are heartily welcomed.  
  
Last, but CERTAINLY not least, a big THANK YOU to Kathy (Elanor Gamgee) for your wonderful betaing, and most of all for the encouragement. Without you, I may have scrapped this piece altogether. 


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